


Opia

by bonelines, howlscastle



Category: Hannibal (TV), King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Conflict Resolution, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Force Choking, Historical, M/M, Master/Slave, Mildly Dubious Consent, One Shot, Psychic Abilities, Sexual Slavery, Slapping, Tension, Threats of Violence, Violence, a slight supernatural element added, sorta?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 04:35:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7345126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonelines/pseuds/bonelines, https://archiveofourown.org/users/howlscastle/pseuds/howlscastle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I can kill you quickly, or I can kill you slowly. How fast you get off my fucking lap will decide which of those happens.” <i>Tristan’s tone is not mocking, angry, or even dry. Rather, when Tristan speaks, he is chillingly matter-of-fact.</i></p><p>  <i>“I’ve gotten a feel for the other men in this room,” the boy in Tristan’s lap starts, keeping his voice low so that others could not hear over the rise of the surrounding laughter of the room and the sound of goblets clamoring over wooden tabletops. “And I would prefer I didn’t go home with any of them. If you don’t mind.”</i></p><p>  <i>There’s a pause after this and the slave still has yet to vacate the lap he occupies— Tristan can’t believe the words. Of course he fucking minds.</i></p><p> </p><p>A more fantastical alternate universe in which Galahad is a psychic sold into sex slavery and he ends up under the ownership of Tristan, who is none too happy about it at first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opia

**Author's Note:**

> **This wasn't beta-read, as usual, so all mistakes are our own. This is alternate universe, so it was mostly for the sake of fun, experimental writing. The definition of the title word, Opia, is: _(n) the ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable._**   
>  **We hope you enjoy reading!**

Tristan leans back in his chair, one leg hooked over the armrest as he swirls his goblet, before taking a swill of mead - allowing the warm spices and tart wine to fill his head with a pleasant flush of warmth. He’d fucking need several more barrels of mead in order to get through this night. To get a better look as the slaves begin to parade themselves in, Tristan rolls his head to the side and brushes aside his messy straw-colored hair, riddled at random with braids. Each of the slaves had committed treason against the throne. Each of them hopes to get taken home by a good owner.

‘ _Good luck with that_ ,’ Tristan thinks to himself as he stabs another hunk of roast boar with his dagger and shoves it in his mouth.

Closing his eyes, he chews the stringy meat and tries to wrestle away memories of his own time as a sex slave. Sex slaves are the lowest of the low and to be dubbed one is considered the worst punishment, above all others. Death would have been a kinder sentence than to be shackled into sex slavery. Tristan’s jaw tightens as he shakes his head, trying to shake away images of all the filthy, horrible things he had done, even if just to survive until he was able to fight his way up to become a dueling slave. And then, finally, he had battled his way to freedom.

He shifts around in his chair and fixes his tunic to hide the swelling in his pants. He hates the things he’d done as a sex slave, and he hates the way that the memory of those things still have the power to make his cock swell as hard as a fucking freshly-forged lance.

Opening his eyes and parting his lips, Tristan draws in a deep gasp as eyes refocus on the table in front. One of the other noblemen stare back at him with an arched brow.

“What you looking at, eh?” Tristan sneers, a nod in the man’s direction, but the other is quick to turn his attention away. Everyone here knows not to challenge Tristan— his kill count is yet to be beaten in the fighting rings, even though those days are done for him as well. Still, no man is brave enough to test his swordsmanship, or hand-to-hand combat skills.

Although Tristan had won his place among the noblemen of this kingdom fair and square - and therefore, his place at this table tonight - he still doesn’t dare look up towards the King - the man who Tristan had supposedly betrayed some time ago.

“Fucking set up.” He mumbles to himself as he shovels more meat into his mouth and twirls the blade between the grip of long fingers.

He licks his dagger clean, sheathing it and stretching his arms back to rest them behind his head. No one ever speaks to him and Tristan speaks to no one. Nothing in particular catches his eye this night either— at least not yet. His boot taps in mild agitation as he looks around, readying himself to leave. Probably for the best, anyway. His intentions here are grey.

Tristan licks over his lips, scratching a hand down his beard, before he drinks down the rest of his mead in three deep gulps and then slams the goblet down, wiping his forearm over his mouth. He is just about to stand, when a small thing lands into his lap - the soft touch of a hand pressing over Tristan’s shoulder and lean legs nearly straddling his thigh.

Tristan is quick to react. His hand snatches his dagger as he peers up towards the boy in his lap with an unveiled fury. No one is ever truly able to sneak up on Tristan - not even on a bad day. And if this boy thought he had found himself a kind owner: he had not.

“I can kill you quickly, or I can kill you slowly. How fast you get off my fucking lap will decide which of those happens.”

Tristan’s tone is not mocking, angry, or even dry. Rather, when Tristan speaks, he is chillingly matter-of-fact. Although he doesn’t possess any degree of magic - like so many of this land do - he always hits his mark, regardless. Nothing is a match for pure discipline and determination and Tristan is highly skilled with a blade.

The boy seems to take a moment to fully process the threat, mulling it over in his head as if unsure whether or not Tristan had really chosen to be so crass. It’s only there for a second - a flash in time - before an expression more serious falls into place. This boy is clearly used to less-than-polite treatment, but that doesn’t mean he has ever encountered a man quite like Tristan.

“I’ve gotten a feel for the other men in this room,” the boy in Tristan’s lap starts, keeping his voice low so that others could not hear over the rise of the surrounding laughter of the room and the sound of goblets clamoring over wooden tabletops. “And I would prefer I didn’t go home with any of them. If you don’t mind.”

There’s a pause after this and the slave still has yet to vacate the lap he occupies— Tristan can’t believe the words. Of course he fucking minds.

“Galahad. That’s my name. I know you weren’t wondering, but I figured I might tell you anyway,” the boy continues, a brow arching as he slips in closer in Tristan’s lap. Galahad is playing with fire, but if only to keep the hands of the other men in the room off of him.

Perhaps that is one of the stranger things about Galahad - the thing that makes him differ even just the slightest. Being an oracle. Mind-reader. Psychic. There are names for those who are able to tap into someone’s emotions and the things that roam freely behind the cage of their skull, but all of the names equate to the same thing. Galahad has heard enough of what the other men had to think to know that he doesn’t want his life in their hands.

Though, regardless of the filth he can feel rolling from the others through his mind’s eye, Galahad does, indeed, know that Tristan isn’t much better a choice. It doesn’t matter. Galahad wants out of this place - needs out of this place - and the only way out is through the ownership of another.

The boy isn’t slight, by any means— he has muscle strapped over the length of his limbs and under the soft barrier of tightly worn flesh. He’s smaller than Tristan, yes, but most are. Long, sinewy arms and legs are bound by heavy chains, but given enough slack for Galahad to move - enough slack to continue to demand the space of Tristan’s lap, despite the threat. It’s coupled with a couple glances over the bow of the boy’s shoulder, as if to check on what occurs between all the others that surround them. As if to confirm that none were reaching out for him with their hooked fingers extended out of wicked intent.

“Please. You can do with me whatever you’d like, but take me from here.” One last plea, before Galahad’s gaze is directed to lock on Tristan’s - eyes just as desperate as the tone of the words spoken. A bright blue. Like the glint of the ocean’s wave when the foam has settled, or the hush of the sky, just before it makes way for night.   
  
Galahad’s eyes are cradled over soft cheek bones and flushed features - all sloped down to the hard line of his jaw that is painted with the darker shadow of his facial hair. It’s the same hue as the messy chocolate-colored tresses that frame the boy’s features, curled and wavy to create the image of tousled youth.

Pretty— but not in the sense that he is daintily so. No, Galahad is the combination of sharp angles and hidden power curled behind muscle, all mixed with the dewy softness of his flesh and the bow of his heart-shaped mouth.

But Tristan isn’t so easily swayed.

“I don’t give a fuck about your name. And all you’re fucking asking for now, with all your coy glances and little pleas, is a prolonged death, slave.” The last word spat out. But as he moves to shove Galahad off, the other man loops his shackled arms over Tristan’s neck and presses his weight down further, rolling his ass against the man’s well-hidden erection.

Well hidden, that is, until now.

Tristan’s head drops forward, a low growl slipping over cruel lips as his whole body shudders. But the feeling, no matter how pleasurable, is unwelcome.

Galahad knows exactly what he is doing and rolls his ass down that much harder just to drive the point home. He doesn’t smile, or tease, or goad— this is a simple transaction of need and supply. Soft pink lips part to draw in a silent, breathy moan as his head lowers to catch Tristan’s gaze. Blue eyes blink slowly and a flush sweeps up his neck and cheeks, as if on command.

Tristan snarls a wordless response, draws his dagger, and then presses it to Galahad’s throat. Although Galahad’s moan becomes an open gasp and his flesh trembles in response, he doesn’t move.

Tristan’s brow furrows - unsure if this slave is stupid, or just resigned to his fate.

Tristan drags his tongue over his lower lip, trying to decide whether he should simply kill Galahad now, or draw it out, as promised. The man rolls his head to the side as he watches the way the slave’s Adam’s apple struggles against the blade that presses in just below it. A prick of blood blooms and runs a carmine line down to Galahad’s collarbone.

Tristan would be lying if he said he wasn’t taken with the other man - the pulsing heat in his loins marking the point - but Tristan’s interest rarely ends well for any slave in question. He would rather kill this pretty slave off, than revisit that part of himself again. Perhaps he would grant Galahad the leniency of a quick death.

Perhaps.

Tristan’s hooded amber gaze slowly trails up the lines of Galahad’s neck, jaw, and lips to meet those blue, and rightfully afraid eyes. There is a moment of silence between the two of them as they remain just as they are with one another— seeing and being seen. Hunger flows back and forth with an increasingly heated intensity as the silence draws out, but the spell is broken swiftly when another burly man comes along and yanks the chain around Galahad’s neck.

“If you don’t want this pretty little thing, I can give his mouth something to work around.” The stranger laughs and yanks the chain again, looking at Tristan to join in the joke.

A hitched whimper falls from Galahad’s lips as he buckles under the strain, jaw craned and eyes flitting upwards towards the stranger as he nearly stumbles from Tristan’s lap, only to be held up by Tristan’s quick hand at his back.

When the stranger goes to shove a fat, greasy thumb in Galahad’s gasping mouth, Tristan swings and stabs his dagger through the back of the stranger’s hand, pinning him to the table. The blade is so sharp that it moves just as easily through flesh and muscle as it does through air. Skin gives way and parts way from the steel as blood and screams pour forth in equal measure.

“Stop your whining. You still have your hand.” Tristan yanks the blade out of the stranger’s hand and wipes the blood off on the tablecloth, before sheathing it again. Without glancing up, he presses his large hand to the stranger’s breastplate and shoves him away, as if he were shooing away a pest.

A trail of both red and obscenities lie in the stranger’s wake as he stumbles back through the crowd, clutching his arm.

Tristan doesn’t look twice. Galahad manages to right himself, legs still straddled on either side of Tristan without having been pulled from his lap. Despite being visibly shaken, Galahad is able to take in a steady lungful of air once again - clearly relieved to have some distance between himself and the stranger.

A few people look up at the man who continues to howl in pain on the other end of the room now, but no one says a word. They return to their meals and their slaves. Sex, fighting, and even death, are not uncommon at the King’s feast. Indeed, such deadly debauchery is to be expected.

Tristan shoots a dark look at Galahad as if to express that the former act of protecting him hadn’t meant a thing.

Both know otherwise.

“Tell me, slave... what exactly did you do to end up in chains, eh?” Tristan leans back in the chair and shifts around, spreading his thighs so that the tip of his cock is pushing up against Galahad’s ass. Tristan’s large palm comes to rest on Galahad’s lean, tanned thigh while his long fingers toy at the edge of the thin, cotton material. A slave’s tunic was only ever designed to cover just enough - both to entice buyers and to save on materials, due to cotton being worth more than the slaves themselves.

It’s clear Galahad’s answer will determine his whole future, and regardless of the answer, the depravity of it all leaves Tristan inwardly squirming.

Because Galahad has looped the chains linking both of his wrists around the back of Tristan’s neck, he is forced to follow and stay close as the slave practically speaks directly into his mouth when the answer is presented.

“Psychics aren’t allowed in the King’s court— I’m sure you’re aware,” the slave begins, lashes lowering along with his gaze as an expression that’s akin to something like remorse flashes briefly over his features. It’s only there for a second, before he continues and his gaze lifts once again to meet Tristan’s in their close proximity. “I hid who I was, knowing very well what the punishment would be if I were to be found out. I have only myself to blame.”

Galahad’s tone is smooth and matter-of-factly, almost as though it were a means to hide a weakness while also simultaneously allowing Tristan to see it.

A pause and another silence falls over the two of them— shorter this time. Galahad throws a quick glance over his shoulder to be sure that the man whose hand Tristan has stabbed is still far away. Galahad is sure that he just needs to convince Tristan to take him home and then there would be far less to worry about. Less than if Galahad were to leave with any of the other men in the room, anyway, but he wouldn’t be free from worry completely.

Tristan is still extremely dangerous, even though his thoughts are not nearly as filthy in their wickedness as the thoughts belonging to the rest of the men surrounding them.

There is, however, a darkness there that Galahad senses, but cannot place.

“Please.” It’s a plea and it falls breathy from Galahad’s parted lips as their mouths hover just inches apart - close enough to breathe in one another’s exhales. “If not you, I will have to leave with that man, or someone just like him. Yes, I’ve accepted my fate, but I don’t believe I’m quite deserving of what would become of me then— do you?”

Tristan turns his attention away from Galahad, getting the impression that the boy has no sexual interest in him. And, really, that almost sits better with the older man. The heat melts away quickly and he ducks his head down to lift the chains from around his neck, freeing himself of Galahad’s hold.

“You said yourself, only yourself to blame.” He grips the other man by his waist, lifting him off and setting him to stand beside the chair.

Tristan takes a moment to sprawl out, fixing his erection to hide under his tunic once again, before stretching his legs out. He scratches over his chin as he takes one last look around the room. Nothing here interests him. Galahad had held his interest for a moment, but that moment has passed.

“Go with them. You body will be used, but maybe you’ll survive.” He nods towards the direction of the man he had just stabbed. ”Or, come with me and I’ll grant you a quick death. I’m sure you’ll see the truth enough of that, eh?”

Tristan taps his temple with two fingers to indicate that if Galahad was indeed psychic, he should at least be able to see his own death, especially when it is this imminent. He rolls his shoulders and, clasping the arm of the chair, Tristan then pushes to standing.

“Make your choice.” He doesn't look behind him has strides towards the door.

And so, Galahad is left to stand alone amidst the crowd of many others, both free men and slaves alike. He doesn’t move at first— instead, he pauses and remains where he is for a moment, unsure of what to do. He certainly had not anticipated the harsh sting of reality that follows in the wake of Tristan walking away.

Galahad knows that no matter what his decision may be, he would not be heading towards anywhere safe. Sure, Tristan had read as a far better option for the slave to turn to than the other men in the room, but that had not meant he was a good decision. Galahad has no option that is good.

Turning away and giving himself to the crowd of other men could very well lead to a fate worse than death. To be chained in a room for the rest of his life - however long, or short that might be, in that case - only to be used whenever his master saw fit. Though there are many relationships between master and slave that are more or less equals— slaves are more than often subjected to torture and humiliation. It isn’t uncommon that a slave die at the hands of their master - though it was not usually a quick and easy death.

If Galahad chooses to follow Tristan, he would at least be granted that much.

He only gives it one more second’s deliberation, before Galahad follows close behind, swift steps carrying him forward to catch up to Tristan, chains clinking lightly with the movement.

“I will go home with you,” Galahad starts upon finally placing himself in-step with Tristan, walking beside him, though never looking directly at him— only brief sidelong glances are cast into the other man’s direction. “A quick death is more than I could ever dream of receiving from anyone else.”

He can’t help but be curious about Tristan - wanting to know more about him. The more time that Galahad spend in the other man’s company, the more he is able to sense about him, but a lot remains unclear. Galahad wonders if Tristan is the type of man who could be swayed— even if just a little. Perhaps just enough to save his life? It’s hard to tell.

“Have you any other slaves?” Galahad asks suddenly, another glance towards Tristan. A lot of men kept more than one slave, if they kept any at all, but Galahad gets the impression that Tristan isn’t all too fond of the idea of ever even keeping one. Perhaps that is why Galahad is very likely walking towards his death, right at this very moment.

Tristan grunts when Galahad joined his side, mostly annoyed with having to pay money for such a wasteful thing, but the other man is right - a quick death is better than anything else he could hope to get.

“No slaves.” Tristan answers without looking at him.

He pulls out a small moleskine bag and tosses down a few gold coins to the gatekeeper, before waiting for the slave to be unshackled. He quickly grows impatient with the process, however, folding his muscled arms over his chest as he takes to studying the lane outside. It’s clear for now - quiet and dark. It would serve its purpose.

Tristan doesn’t bother with keeping an eye on the slave once they finally leave, knowing Galahad would be quite aware that his fate would be worse than death if he did. When it comes to Galahad’s death, if it were not by Tristan’s hand, then it would certainly be by someone else’s.

They walk together in silence for a while, sure feet gliding over cobblestones that glisten a slated blue in the moonlight. Galahad rubs his hands over both of his own wrists as if to memorize the way that they feel without shackles. He’d been in chains since the moment he’d been dubbed a slave— had learned quickly that fighting against any restraints only led to the metal cutting into his flesh.

When they arrive at the closest alley, Tristan suddenly strikes his arm out in front of Galahad, stopping him from walking any further in a motion that’s both swift and forceful. There’s enough power behind it to encourage him not to argue.

“Down there.” Tristan nods towards the nearly pitch-black alley that reeks of piss and rotting meat.

They had now walked far enough from view that a murder shouldn’t cause any havoc if it were kept to the darkness and the quiet. They would have no interruptions and Galahad would not be missed, regardless.

“Knees.” Tristan waits.

It’s in this moment that fear truly creeps into all areas of Galahad’s mind, possessing everything else within him and eliciting a tremor that passes over him in one sweeping wave. A thick swallow and a soft huff of a sigh passes through his nostrils, before he finally turns to meet Tristan’s gaze, lowering himself to his knees without a word. Galahad digs in deep - tries to get some sort of reading off the man who stands above him - something to grasp at in an attempt to save himself. He knows there has to be something he can appeal to.

“Any last words?” Tristan unsheathes his dagger and bounces it in his hand, sure to get the right grip, as the slave lowers to his knees without argument. Tristan had promised a quick death, and he is a man of his word. He has no reason to be cruel and he certainly doesn’t want to waste his entire night on this.

A rattled exhale and Galahad shakes his head, allowing his gaze to drop away from the other’s as his head falls, feeling defeated as fear threatens to suffocate him completely. There’s only a quick pause, before he takes action and his voice rises, all of his muscles stiffening when Tristan takes a single step closer.

“Wait!” Galahad breaks the silence, eyes snapping up once again as his hand reaches out, palm falling just-barely against the surface of Tristan’s shin, as if to beg that he stop long enough to hear the slave out. “Please. You don’t have to do this. If you… took me with you, I wouldn’t be a bother. And anything you want from me… you can have it.”

Galahad knows it’s a long shot. He knows that, besides sex, the only other thing he could really be of any use for, is his psychic ability— and that’s only if Tristan were to have any reason he’d want to put that to use.

“I— um. I know I don’t have much of anything to offer you… but I can make you feel good. Whenever you want,” the slave starts again, the hand placed against Tristan’s leg, now slipping its way up his thigh in a slow and sensual sweep. Galahad braces himself for a negative reaction - for Tristan to lash out.

What he really gets, however, is a reading.

As the touch of his hand glides up the warm expanse of Tristan’s thigh, Galahad is met with visions that hit him very suddenly and without warning. Flashes of Tristan as a younger man and his own wrists shackled as he’s sold off as a sex slave— the journey that brings Tristan to where he is now gives Galahad enough insight to understand him, to some degree. Galahad can quite literally feel the resentment that had spawned from such a past and now, how that manifests into a bitter need to kill Galahad now.

Tristan can’t deny the quiver of pleasure that runs up his thigh under the boy’s touch, but he refuses to use someone who doesn’t want to be used. He just doesn’t work that way. He also won’t be played for a fool by a slave - he has far better control over his instincts than that. But before he can kick the boy off, Galahad spouts off about Tristan’s past, stopping him in his tracks.

“Killing me won’t kill your past. It will still be there, just the same,” the slave starts up once again, his hand halting where it creeps up Tristan’s thigh. Galahad pleads once more, praying that it might be enough to save his life. “If you keep me, you can use my sight whenever it suits you. My ability… it must be of some use to you.”

Tristan stands frozen and tense for a long moment afterwards as the words sink in, before he moves swiftly and backhands the boy with enough force to knock him back against the alley wall with a loud crack. Galahad releases a sound of shock and stumbles, trying to catch himself against the wall while his ears ring in the wake of the strike.

“Don’t. Ever. Try. And. Know. Me.” It’s snarls over Tristan’s curled lips and hissing tongue, spit flying with his seething and scathing response as eyes ignite themselves with the fires of his anger. Tristan is quick to return back into action and grab the stunned slave by the throat, pinning him to the wall with a force that cuts off airflow and lifts Galahad’s feet from the ground below.

In this moment, all Galahad can do is reach out and wrap fingers over Tristan’s wrist in a desperate attempt to alleviate some of his own weight from being held up by his throat. It doesn’t do much to help— the slave still has to blink away stars as his head goes light with the lack of air. He feels nothing but panic now. Tristan is unpredictable, regardless of any gift of foresight that Galahad possesses.

“Why choose a life of torture at my hand, when you could have a quick death? You make no sense. Are you simple, as well as a liar? I have no use for you.” Tristan’s eyes are wild and dark as they rake over the pretty slave’s face, but his charms have long-since faded on the larger man.

His head drops, long and messy hair falling around his face while the muscles of his shoulders heave with every breath as he shakes his head. He would love to just cast this slave off, but if a bought slave is found wandering free,then both the owner and that slave are brought to answer before the King. Tristan has no desire to be in that position, yet again.

“You are already proving more trouble than you are worth, slave.” With that, Tristan finally drops Galahad to the ground and turns to walk off, having no doubt in his mind that the pesky thing would follow.

And he does— as soon as he catches his breath. First, Galahad fills his lungs greedily and keels over to center himself, hands on his knees as his heart pounds in his ears. Everything from here on out, he knows will be a challenge. Not just for himself, as a slave to a man who could clearly kill him with ease, but also for Tristan.

This would be hard for both men, but Galahad had struck some sort of chord when he’d brought up Tristan’s past, that much had been obvious. If Galahad could only connect even further, then there might be some hope yet.

He only takes a minute’s pause to steady himself, before the slave hurries to follow after the larger man.

When they arrive at Tristan’s home - a small, thatched, single-room cottage with stables out back - he opens the front door and ducks to walk through, wide shoulders brushing the frame. Galahad follows closely behind in an effort to keep up, shutting the door behind them out of courtesy.

“Don’t touch the animals, or I will ensure your death is a long and painful one.” Tristan is already having regrets in having gone back on his initial word. He never breaks a vow. He doesn’t keep slaves. He doesn’t even know what to do with them, besides kill them. Perhaps he might still entertain the idea of killing Galahad.

However, Tristan doesn’t acknowledge the slave again when he goes to stoke the fire and then tends to the dogs and cats. His horses would have to wait for morning.

Finally, he walks over and starts talking to his falcon, where it sits on its perch. Tristan strokes long fingers through the powerful bird’s feathers, encouraging it to step onto to his arm, before the man moves towards his bed and flops back onto it, sure to keep his arm level and balanced. Attempting to pull his mind away from the previous frustrations between himself and Galahad, Tristan takes to admiring the bird as it pecks at the dried meat he draws from his pocket and holds in his opposite hand.

All the while, Galahad watches.

He stands out of the way as much as possible and observes as the larger man goes about his business without any more attention directed towards the slave - something Galahad is just fine with. He watches the relationship that Tristan has with his animals and finds himself entirely transfixed.

There is a connection there— something that Tristan is clearly capable of. It’s as if he and falcon are able to communicate through something much more than words. There’s a softness there that the slave has only just now seen in Tristan.

Galahad wonders if he can earn some of that, himself.

He waits a while, before finally making his way over - crossing the space of the room that remains between them until his knees stop at the edge of the bed and Galahad is left to peer down towards Tristan and his bird with a certain level of caution. Slow and steady, the then places a palm to the surface the man lies on and then climbs up to join him. Even still, on the bed together, the slave keeps some distance as his eyes travel wearily between both Tristan and the falcon, who uses its sharp beak to pull meat into its mouth.

“I heard once, that a bird of prey will only allow itself to be handled by someone it deems worthy— someone that is sees as its equal,” Galahad starts, his voice soft and low in fear that he might startle the bird, but his gaze shifts over to train onto Tristan’s. While their gazes meet in the middle there, Tristan barely offers a grunt in response before returning to his bird.

No movements too sudden, the slave shifts to lower himself, lying down on his side with elbow propped and his head rested against that hand. It’s a casual position and he’s not too close to impose himself - not yet - but both men are lying close enough to feel the heat of their bodies intermingling in the distance between.

“You are very good with him.”

It’s all the more he says about it - the first thing Galahad has said at all since the altercation in the alley - but he takes a blind leap of faith. The hand that he doesn’t lean on travels towards the larger man, just as cautious as any previous motion, as the slave reaches out and ghosts fingertips up Tristan’s nearest bicep to ultimately rest a hand over his shoulder.

Galahad keeps the touch in place, aware of the way Tristan seems to tense at first, before his muscles relax again and the slave speaks again.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to be a bother to you— I won’t impose myself into your thoughts like that again,” he says, praying that bringing it up at all wouldn’t cause yet another bout of anger. Galahad had only voiced the vision he’d had of Tristan’s past in an effort to save himself, but he has no desire to anger the larger man again.

Tristan raises a brow and offers a quick sidelong glance towards Galahad, before running a firm palm down the back of the falcon’s neck.

“So then, why do you impose yourself now?” His gaze dips to where the slave touches him.

Before Galahad can provide an answer, Tristan lifts his arm ever so slightly, encouraging the falcon to take flight. It only flies so far. The falcon settles on the slave’s shoulder, large claws digging in enough to puncture through and draw blood to the surface. It collects in small, crimson beads and threatens to drip a slow line down the younger man’s arm.

Tristan just watches, waiting for the boy’s reaction, and is greeted with the sound of a small hiss - Galahad flinching in just the slightest at the pain, but not enough to disturb the bird where it rests. A glint of satisfaction flickers across the surface of Tristan’s eyes as he watches Galahad eye the falcon closely, before the larger man whistles sharply, plush lips drawn to a bow as the bird takes flight again and lands back to it’s perch.

Tristan turns his full attention to the slave now and rubs a thumb through the small puncture wounds on his shoulder, before the older man then takes a swipe of blood and brings it to his mouth, his gaze never leaving Galahad’s as he patiently await his answer.

Tristan has already made it abundantly clear that he won’t take anyone to his bed who doesn’t want to be there - not when he knows there are so many who would be willing to bed down with him for the night.

Once done painting his lips in blood and sucking them clean, smooth tongue darting out to catch every last drop, Tristan then leans closer to drag his fingertips through the small beads of weeping blood once again, only to reach out and paint the slave’s lips the very same wet, ruby red.

“So, tell me, eh— why my bed?”

Galahad, himself, doesn’t seem to truly know the right answer, afraid of coming off as foolish. In a room full of other men who would have purchased his soul, he has chose Tristan. Galahad had insisted upon Tristan. It had not only been for the obvious warmth that can be felt within the larger man - however buried it might but - but Galahad would also be lying if he said that he wasn’t attracted to the other man in a way that is much more physical as well.

Galahad isn’t a weak person and, beyond all else, he has a very deep understanding of people and how they work. All of Tristan’s violence is a product of emotion, even if it’s emotion that the man just doesn’t know how to work his way through yet, Galahad can understand that.

“Your bed because, even if I weren’t a slave, I wouldn’t turn down an invitation into it,” Galahad finally answers, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth in a manner that’s almost playful and flirtatious, but his gaze lowers in a way that hints towards shyness. He runs a wet tongue over the curve of his lips to wash them of the deep red that had been painted there, his senses overtaken by the sharp, copper taste.

The slave gives a another pause and a short huff of a laugh, before adding, “Not that you’ve invited me into it just now, of course. I imposed myself.”

His voice is soft and there’s a level of humor to it, eye flicking back up to lock on Tristan’s for a brief second, wanting nothing more than to connect in some way, but unsure of how to reach for it.

Tristan watches the slave in silence— the way he stumbles with how to handle himself. Almost endearing, but not quite. Tristan likes a partner who knows what they want and how to reach for it.

“You’re not a slave.” His tone is gruff, not liking to repeat himself, but as those perfectly pink lips curl up, they drag Tristan’s desire with them. He can feel the pulse of heat between his legs and a flush creeping up his neck.

He slips a firm hand around Galahad’s waist and grips the narrow band of muscle, before dipping his head forward and closing his mouth over the small wound on the younger man’s shoulder, sucking and lathing his tongue over the bloody marks.

“And you are not imposing.”

Unless you are playing games, Tristan thinks to himself - but even that much would reveal itself soon enough and he would quickly put an end to things, if so.

Galahad’s breath hitches in his throat, appreciating this new change in the air between them. He leans into all the touched that are granted and reaches out with touches of his own— hand skimming over Tristan’s arm and up to rest against his shoulder.

Tristan moves his lips up to the crook of Galahad’s neck, pulling aside any clothing that gets in the way - just enough to move his lips and tongue over the smaller man’s shoulder. Galahad tastes like smoke, sweat, and something sweet. It comes with the memory of the things that Tristan used to press into his skin to make himself desirable when he was a slave as well.

An aphrodisiac.

No one is immune - not the slave, or the target of their attention - and despite the unpleasant associations, it still manages to draw a groan from the older man, his need pulsing even harder.

As his hand drifts down to grip fingers over Galahad’s lean thigh, working just under the hem of his tunic, Tristan drags an open-mouthed kiss up the smaller man’s neck, abusing his nape with teeth and tongue. The wet warmth of it draws a moan from Galahad’s throat, lips parted and hands reaching out to wind fingers into Tristan’s hair.

Galahad can’t help feeling much more emboldened, now that they begin to sink into touching one another and dancing along the edges of previous boundaries. Shifting in closer, slots them together so that their knees bump from where they lie, facing one another— only then does Galahad angle the line of his jaw just enough to catch Tristan’s gaze in the close proximity.

“Is this what you want? Is this why you chose me?” Tristan’s hand inches just the slightest bit higher as he speaks, thumb nearly brushing against the swell of Galahad’s groin as fingers press into the dip of the boy’s hip.

“Among other things,” Galahad answers lowly, pressing forward into the touch.

Turning his features just the slightest, their noses brush, and Galahad holds the other’s gaze for a long pause on heated breath, before closing the space between and pressing their mouths together in a searing kiss.

The shock of just how good it feels to kiss Tristan brings Galahad to apply more pressure, lips pressed together in a way that’s nearly bruising as his mouth parts and tongue slips past the older man’s teeth, if only to get more of a taste. Hips buck forward once - an action that he’s unable to control - and the motion brings the hard lines of their erections to drag against one another. The friction is delicious and it awakens more of a heat within Galahad. He wants to feel more. He wants to know more about Tristan.

“I have no reason to deny having an attraction towards you,” Galahad begins again, his voice more winded with the warm, hazy need that goes alongside their kissing. When he speaks, his words are hummed into Tristan’s mouth. “... an attraction in a very physical sense. But beyond that as well.”

Galahad doesn’t specify aloud - doesn’t bring his gift back into conversation - but it is without needing to be said, that he had been attracted to what lies within Tristan’s mind as well. The small tastes of it that are granted in pieces, in any case.

Although brutish in looks, Tristan is not immune to the boy’s tender touches, words, and impressions. When their lips meet and when he admits his need, the larger man offers up a groan, his whole body loose and trembling as he pulls Galahad on top of him, pushing hands into the younger man’s hair.

“Then why let me nearly kill you? All you need do is kiss me to have my sword.” The heavy words are murmured into Galahad’s mouth as hair is tugged and hips rock upwards, seeking out friction.

In answer, Galahad follows every rut of the older man’s hips, rolling his own in answer and pressing the two of them together in a warm and pleasured closeness. Galahad can’t help the hitch in his breath and the low purr of a moan that breaks free from deep in his throat.

“Surely, coming off too strongly would have put my sincerity into question,” he answers on a soft exhale, hips rocking down and tongue kissing into Tristan’s mouth with the words.

Tristan’s need grows greater by the second. Each time Galahad touches him, hot sparks fly under his skin, leaving every part of the older man reaching for the other. Keeping his gaze locked on sky-blue as he places his hand on Galahad’s shoulder, Tristan then eases the cotton shift down. His other hand comes up to palm down the smaller man’s chest and to thumb over pert nipples, watching them swell and darken. It’s enough of a lure that Tristan leans up and closes his mouth over them, sucking and biting to draw more sounds out of his slave-turned-lover.

“You taste sweet.” He murmurs against smooth skin as he rips the rest of the shift away, leaving Galahad naked above him.

Completely exposed now, the younger man’s spine dips from where he remains perched in Tristan’s lap, back arching to draw the slave’s chest closer to the mouth that licks over smooth skin as Galahad’s erection sits curved and flush over the curve of his own belly. Another moan sounds and it’s lilted— growing in lust. Galahad winds fingers into Tristan’s hair and tugs just the same in response, drawing the older man’s neck to arch back and leave his throat exposed - just enough to allow Galahad room to lean in and sweep open-mouthed kisses over the column of it. His lips are kissed in return with the vibration of a growl that crawls up Tristan’s throat.

“And you…” Galahad starts, humming against the older man’s neck as he leans down to kiss over Tristan’s collarbone, fingers drawing away the fabric of his tunic to allow room. A brow lifts and the slave’s gaze does the same, flickering up to seek out the other man’s in a question, without explicitly saying the words aloud. “... I want to taste more of you.”

With that, Galahad is quick to press a palm to Tristan’s chest and press the man’s back to the bed, the slave’s mouth then ghosting down, lower and lower, until he can kiss over the thick line of the older man’s erection through the fabric of his clothing. It’s a tease, yes, but done entirely for Tristan’s pleasure— Galahad wanting nothing more than to drown himself in the heat that Tristan gives off.

However, it is soon clear that Tristan can only take so much, the rapid heaving of his chest belying the hammering of his heart.

In a flash of movement, limbs and material flying, Tristan flips Galahad onto his back with a loud growl. Eyes flash wide as the larger man looks down at the naked, squirming thing beneath him, before diving down to claim Galahad’s mouth with a searing kiss. There is nothing gentle in this as Tristan pushes his tongue in over soft lips and takes over the other’s mouth, grunting and moaning into the space between.

“Taste more, you shall,” he mutters in between breaths as the larger man reaches down and unfastens his own shift.

Tristan strips off his belt and then, bending his neck down, he tugs the rough material over his head to leave himself naked in one move. Clothing is tossed aside without a second thought, and Galahad notes the way a cat slips from a distant space in the home to make itself comfortable on the bed of warm, discarded clothes. Regardless, all of Tristan’s attention is focused on pressing the writhing, hard length of both his and Galahad’s bodies together, rolling their cocks over one another in smooth, sweeping ruts of his hips.

The larger man catches both of Galahad’s hands in his, entwining their fingers, before he lifts them above the slave’s head and pins them hard into the bed, caging Galahad completely. As their tongues battle for dominance, they bask in the feeling of contented excitement that comes with the tangle of their limbs.

Galahad yields completely to Tristan’s needs, body arching up to meet the larger man’s and silken skin slides so very easily in comparison against Tristan’s scarred flesh. The younger man is nothing less than eager and equally as wanton, moaning into their kiss and straining against the hold that Tristan has over his wrists, if only out of the wish to be able to touch him in return.

Holding the slave in place, Tristan works his way down the bed just enough to place himself perfectly between Galahad’s thighs, angling his hips such that the tip of his cock pushes again the smaller man’s tight and reflexive rim. Breath hitches in the smaller man’s throat and spine arches away from the bed to bring each of their chests to press together, a small sound rising its way up to huff past Galahad’s lips.

“Will you be mine?” Tristan asks suddenly and perhaps more aggressively than intended, gaze seeking out the other’s from under an arched brow. “Just. Mine. No more tricks, or business?”

The question hovers between them, heavy and pregnant with possibilities for them, before Tristan releases one of Galahad’s hands to reach down and, without any kind of ceremony, push a finger deep inside the slave’s tight heat. Both of them close their eyes and offer up wanton groans as Tristan curls and massages the smaller man from deep inside, looking for that small and hidden bundle of nerves that would give him his ‘yes.’

And it takes him hardly any time at all to find it.

When he does, the pad of his finger pressing in and rubbing against the ridged skin of Galahad’s prostate, the smaller man then writhes into the jolt of pleasure that follows as it licks hot and hungry flames up the length of his body. In answer, the slave’s cock twitches from where it rests against his belly and hips lift away from the bed to seek out even more.

“Yes!” It’s gasped out in a rush of a hissed exhale, unable to hold air in the cradle of his lungs for too long as pleasure and lust combined set Galahad’s breathing to a steady pant. “Y—es, I would be yours, alone. Nobody else’s.”   
  
Putting the larger man’s ownership of him aside, Galahad has no need for any others anyway, should he find all that he needs, here with Tristan. Galahad has no desire for anything other than this man, who had saved his life, but also challenges him in equal measure— this man who seems to have the ability to read Galahad’s body like a language he is already intimate with. Every press of large hands, every drag of smooth lips over flesh, and every curl of the man’s long finger inside of him plays the slave like a perfect instrument.

Soon, however, it proves to only further the smaller man’s lust and he craves more.

One hand freed from Tristan’s grasp, Galahad lifts it to run fingers through the older man’s messy hair, cradling the back of his head just long enough to draw the other man so that their mouths could meet in the middle once again. The kiss is hot and wet, and Galahad’s teeth nip at Tristan’s bottom lip to tug at it teasingly, drawing up a feral kind of sound - something between a purr and growl from the larger man as he hovers above and rocks their bodies together. Galahad’s free hand then slips down the front of the larger man’s chest, running lower and lower, until it reaches it’s destination and curls fingers around the thick girth of Tristan’s cock. Both the swollen appendage and the wall of muscle that makes up Tristan’s chest jump forward at the touch.

Tristan’s cock is sizable, filling the slave’s grasp entirely as it throbs under his hold. Galahad gives it a few experimental strokes, up and down the length, from tip to base, before a delighted chill crawls under his flesh. Lustful, Galahad can’t think of anything now, besides his want for having the other man filling him from the inside. And it’s clear from the older man’s ragged breaths, trembling flesh, and rolling hips that he wants nothing more than to do exactly that.

“More.... please. I need it. Let me ride you,” Galahad insists, his tone a trembling purr as he squirms again in an attempt to free his other arm, the hand over Tristan’s cock giving an encouraging squeeze as the smaller man’s hips tilt upwards in offering.

“You…” Tristan shakes his head with a shuddering groan as he slides his fingers out, lifting his hand to then spit into the cup of his palm, before lathering it over his cock so that it’s hard and glistening when he lines it up against Galahad’s hole.

Only then does he finally release the squirming slave’s other hand in order to take a firm hold of Galahad’s throat instead, holding him in place whilst taking in the measure of his pulse.

“Pain excites you,” Tristan continues, the point punctuated with a powerful thrust of his hips.

His cock splits Galahad’s heat just as a groan spills out over Tristan’s lips, the slave’s rim clenching tight around his shaft, gripping him with equal tenacity as he keeps powerful fingers clasped around Galahad’s throat.

Below, the slave’s back bows away from the bed in a shuddering arch, muscles pulled taut and a cry breaking free past the grip that is kept around his neck. Initially, it’s deliciously painful and, yes, it excites Galahad immensely.

As the smaller man struggles for air, Tristan steals away even more when he leans in and closes a kiss over Galahad’s gasping mouth, their tongues meeting wet and stumbling in the warm space between as a pace is set. It doesn’t take long for the pain and the tightness to also make way for pleasure as well and eventually, Tristan relents his hold on the other’s throat enough to allow Galahad to draw a deep breath from the exhale of the larger man’s lungs.

The breathy, needy, desperate sounds that follow send Tristan into a near frenzy.

Two large hands wrap around Galahad’s calves, squeezing them tight as Tristan pushes the slave’s knees up to his chest to then spread him wider. This new angle allows Tristan to drive down deeper and to draw out the sounds that he most wants to hear.

“Yes. Tell me yes again. Say it…” He growls out, the vibration of the sound pressed into Galahad’s soft lips where they connect for another kiss.

“Yes.” Galahad’s answer that follows doesn’t skip a beat. There’s not even a second of hesitation. “Yes, yes, y—es!”

The chant stumbles out past pink, parted lips that follow the kiss of Tristan’s mouth, the rhythm of the man’s powerful thrusts connecting the joining of their bodies over and over again without fail. They slot together as though they had been made for one another and, at the rate they were going, Galahad knows he won’t be able to last long, before his climax sends him over the edge.

He doesn’t need to read Tristan’s mind to know that he feels the same.

Bent and pliant under the larger man, Galahad continues to moan out, breaking their kiss long enough to dip his gaze downward and watch the way Tristan fucks into the space between the slave’s spread legs. He’s so close— the sight causes everything to heat into a steady boil and all Galahad can do is ride the waves of it.

Seeking out the friction he craves, hands reach out to card one through Tristan’s hair and allow it to rest at the back of the man’s neck for balance, before Galahad’s other hand slips down the length of his own body to wrap trembling fingers over his cock from where it sits against his belly. Each stroke over himself follows every thrust of Tristan’s hips and the pleasure that follows the friction is blinding, Still, it is coupled with the edge of pain that remains, but only heightens everything else.

“I’m not going to last— I’m close…” It’s whimpered out as Galahad digs pearly teeth into his own bottom lip and seeks out Tristan’s gaze in the close proximity.

Tristan grunts in reply as he thrusts down in long powerful sweeps of hips over and over, his knees sliding on the bed as his thighs flex. The broad expanse of his back shines with sweat as he rolls and arches into the squirming boy beneath. The feeling of Galahad tightening around the length of his cock is nothing short of exquisite. Swallowing down the other’s whimpers, Tristan dips and ravishes Galahad’s mouth with a claiming kiss, lips meshed together roughly until flesh splits against bone.

“Cry.” The larger man urges as he turns his gaze down to watch the way Galahad’s perfect pink cock slips between curled fingers.

Galahad has never felt this way with any lover before - has never been able to latch himself so closely in both the spiritual and physical sense. While all at once being so different from one another, he and Tristan are also so deeply alike.

For this reason, there is no effort or strain in Galahad allowing himself to unravel further beneath the larger man’s request. Eyes clamp shut as Tristan pounds into him and pushes Galahad closer and closer to the edge with each motion— the pleasure sparking between them is enough to make tears cloud his vision when his eyes open once again.

The filthy sight of the boy pleasuring himself only leads Tristan to thrust harder, nearly crushing Galahad between himself and the wooden slats of the bed. The tears, coupled with the slave’s huffed exhales that follow each roll of their hips sets Tristan’s blood to boil and he cums in a sudden, almost painful wrench inside the boy. A groan spills over his lips and into Galahad’s waiting mouth as he jerks and shudders forward, eyes rolling white while everything goes hot and sensitive.

And Galahad drinks down every moan that’s given to him in greedy mouthfuls, tongue lapping at the curve of Tristan’s bottom lip as the man climaxes inside of him. It’s warm and entirely welcome - it’s the thing that finally sends Galahad toppling over the edge of his own release as well. He cums over the clench and stroke of his own fingers with another choked cry, back arching to press his form flush against Tristan’s as each of their chests rise and fall on heavy breaths.

It takes a couple more slow, stuttering motions between them for both men to come to a complete stop, basking in the come-down together. Galahad swallows thickly and draws Tristan in for another kiss, nipping teeth against the man’s lower lip in small, lazy passes of their mouths.

However exhausted, the slave shifts his legs to keep them hitched over Tristan’s hips, arms looped over the larger man’s shoulders in the effort to keep them from separating, even as Galahad can feel himself on the verge of sleep.

Tired and dreamlike, the world around them seems to slow to a soft and quiet hum, broken only by the sound of the falcon adjusting its wings for sleep all the way at the far side of the room. Between them, both men breathe heavily, until their lungs are able to rest and their hearts settle to a normal state.

And they do not separate. Galahad keeps one hand against the smooth skin of Tristan’s ribs, uncaring for the mess of his release between them, while the other hand remains wound through the larger man’s messy, long hair. Tucked close together, the sides of their faces grazing, even as exhaustion overtakes them, this new connection that they feel is still so real that they can almost touch it. Though they may hardly know one another at all, there is a mutual understanding and a quiet sort of care there regardless.

Through Galahad’s gift - his ability to peek through the curtain and gain insight into the other’s mind - the slave had been able to challenge him. Galahad had been the only one able to push Tristan in the right direction— a small step towards facing his insecurities in having been a slave, himself, some time ago.

Tristan doesn’t say it out loud, but he can feel a weight begin to lift from his shoulders.

And Galahad, freed from his shackles, still feels no desire to leave. Loose-limbed, lazy brushes of his mouth over the edge of the other man’s jaw continue until he comes to a silent, peaceful stillness, forehead resting against Tristan’s temple as sleep takes them.


End file.
